Tork
by toskliviydays
Summary: He had turned cynical, in his age. While the world around him toiled away, his Hero blood kept him young; kept him alive. With nothing left in a life he has grown too accustom, what else can he do but seek out what eluded him so long ago? Evil!Sparrow.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A story I'd started quite a while ago and only just rediscovered. What's written of the second chapter will be posted, just for the sake of it being there, but it is incomplete and will remain as such unless I find there is any interest in this story. Ta-ta.

Warnings: Evil!Sparrow swearing, vague sexual references, and incompleteness. Un-beta'd.

* * *

I don't remember their names anymore.

It's been bothering me for some time now. I feel, feel as if something very important has been robbed from my memory. Maybe the disobedience in the Spire is having more long-term effects than had been anticipated. The other day, I tried to call on Theresa for help, to ask her why I couldn't remember these things, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out why there was no ghostly presence in my skull. I panicked. But after a while, I realized: I haven't been able to talk to her since we all parted ways, have I? Of course not. She couldn't reach me in the Spire, why should it be any different now? It's astonishing what little things come back to me, and what else stays away. Almost... Well, I'm not quite sure. I want to say "_endearing_", but of what? I have to be loosing my mind.

Berice. Bernie. Beverly. Bee ee, it started with that. Had an ell, too, and an arr. Be-, Beryl? Beryl, that sounds familiar. Easy on the tongue, I remember that. Yes, Beryl must have been her name.

Do you know why I married her? I felt guilty. That's clear as day, the guilt- of seeing my home, our home, my sister's and I, our old home- of seeing it in an even worse state then when I'd left it. Theresa said something about choices, right? About how they effect the outcome of the future? It must have been with those arrest warrants. I gave them to the man that propositioned my sister. I don't remember _why_ I gave them to him; it's all so blurry. But I remember the disgust, the resentment I felt towards him. Maybe I'd hoped he'd leave us alone for I while. I didn't know that music box would actually be of any use. I didn't know what would come to transpire. No one could. Except, perhaps, for that damned blind seerest.

When I came back to Bowerstone Old Town, and saw the state it was in, I was in shock. I couldn't move. And that man, he came up to me, told me what happened- I wanted to slit his throat, punch him in his smug, gap-toothed grin, kill him for the appreciation he showed me for helping him build _this_. There was an overweight whore in the background, fuzzy lip frowning as she repositioned the constricting pieces of _string_ that neglected her lumpy rolls of body fat. I remember the nauseating discomfort. And the anger. And the _disgust_. But most of all, the guilt.

Later on, I'd find a decent maid and bring her over to the the Bowerstone Market, buy her the Silk Moon, marry her quickly. She'd be happy there, no matter what I brought her. It was so much better than Old Town. And she didn't even seem to mind that I had no romantic interests in her. She realized that she'd be used, but she also seemed to realize that it was, by far, a better life than she would ever live in her home.

After that, I'd try my best to stay away from Old Town, as much as I could.

That was Beryl. Beryl, not Berice, not Bernie- Beryl. She was my old stability back then, I should _remember_ her. But I never loved her. So maybe it's okay if I forget.

I don't forget the kids, though.

I remember, we had a few. Two. No, not two, no- three. We had three kids. Two boys and one girl. Yes, very good. I don't remember their names, though. I think the youngest was Matt, but I can't be sure. The first was a girl. Two more boys. The last one Matt.

I'd wanted a boy the first time. Beryl wanted a girl. Maybe she got her choice because they would be her children. She'd take care of 'em- I'd be away. I'd only wanted children for the sake of having children. If I'd never enjoy sex with my wife, at least I'd get some kids for the bloodline out of it.

I was disappointed with the girl. Even so, I'd stayed with her for the majority of her first year. It was just after that I went away, I think- to the Spire. That must be it, because the next memories I have of her are of a ten-year-old girl. She was a terror. The town crier, he said she was a darling. The next month, he was telling me what a brat she was when I was away. I'd laughed. (At least, I think I did. I don't find it funny now, but I think I did then.)

The Spire wrecked me. It took a lot of recuperation after that, but Theresa only gave me a few weeks of peace. There was work to be done. I couldn't be allowed to heal while Lucien was killing the world.

I think we made our second child, around then. Beryl was trying to heal me and I was disgusted with her (_why are you touching me why are you it's so suffocating leave me alone this isn't welcome STOP IT oh shit I'm sorry I didn't mean to hit you really really I'm sorry I swear don't cry I know I'm sorry_) for trying to lay with me, but after a while, I gave in, because waiting for all those years alone, raising the child of your unrequited love- it must have been hard. I let her take me and I hardly even felt it. Then suddenly, boom, there was a child, and she was so happy and I didn't even know what to do with myself (_oh does the old crib would it work is it too old maybe maybe oh I have to raise the budget someone remind me to do that what will it be_).

It was a boy, and I was absolutely beside myself with joy. My love for either of the girls dwarfed considerably in the troll-like size of my adoration for the boy. He was perfect. I could see the future in his eyes and oh my lord how I loved him.

When the two weeks were up, I started on my quest for the Thief. Thief, Thief, Reaver. Reaver, oh yes right, the Thief, Reaver. Thinking of him stirs something strange inside me. I don't think I'll dwell on it now.

After he'd sent me away to gain more renown ("oh you _minx_"), I'd touched base to check on my boy after an unpleasant (but very financially fortuitous) run-in with Captain Dread and the _Marianne_.

He was dead.

My boy.

He was dead.

I'd seen the future in his eyes, but he was dead, gone, oh dear lord what happened to him, Avo you sonuva bitch bring him back you _bastard_.

Beryl hardly seemed phased. She couldn't even give me a solid answer. (_Where is m_y son _oh you don't know silly girl oh he's dead yea that's right what did you do how did you lose a baby why aren't you_ crying _you_ sobbing _you little whore he was the only thing that I loved no I'll take you if I want to you are my _wife _and you lost my_ son.) I'd been violent, I'd been angry, I'd forced her to bare me another son. But when she did, I was no happier. From then on, she'd tried her very best to please me, but there was nothing she could do. I resented her for loosing my son, resented the little girl (traumatized by the sudden death of her little brother and my rough treatment of her mother (_"oh daddy what are you doing oh mommy ow she's screaming oh daddy stop it you're hurting her"_)) for living, and I resenting the second little boy (Matt, Matt, his name was Matt) for not being my first son. I hated them all. But the soft adoration that had built for Beryl stayed and kept me from being cruel. The budget was high, the children were schooled, I came home often with presents in hand, and I even let Beryl have me when she wanted, though I never enjoyed it. To all that looked on, we were a happy, well-off family, still mourning the loss of a baby boy.

I don't remember what took him, but even now my gut burns with the knowledge that he would have been great, that I would have loved him, that the ways of the Hero would not be as lost on him, not nearly, as with his siblings. Not nearly.

Those were the children and Beryl. They kept me grounded. But with the exception of a dead son, I did not love them, not in the slightest.

There was a man, though. He broke my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Un-beta'd like hell, severe overuse of italics. I LIKE them.  
(Also, um, if you guys spot anything that should be changed, go right ahead and tell me. I mean, I don't even remember where I was going with this.)

* * *

Magic sparked under your skin, tickled your nerves, _electrocuted_ you with it's raw power. For a while, it's disorienting. There's something rather unsettling (rather _empowering_- oh my oh my look what I can _do_) about watching corporeal blades materializing at will above your head, fire and lightening shooting through your very _being_, out and out and _destroying_ everything in your path. When you can slow down time, reign chaos down on your enemies, reshape the world with the power between your fingertips, something tends to go to your head. There's only so much farther to go before you can do _anything_. But that's just the thing, isn't it, isn't it? You _can't_ do anything. That's not how it works. You are _not_ the gods of Archon.

And that's humbling.

And you tumble violently back down to earth.

And you're left with the satisfaction (or, perhaps dissatisfaction- the two seem one in the same for me now, or maybe there was no difference to begin with, I can't quite _remember_) of knowing that, at the very least, you can destroy anything that stands in your way. It all just matters which way you can travel, at that point.

That was the feeling of Will, of magic you could bend to your liking just by _thinking_ it. But, my god, this? That was so different. I'd forgotten, and how _dare_ I forget something so refreshing, like the breeze off Bower Lake after a violent storm, after bloodshed and adrenaline. After the cloudy-minded state that everything puts you in. It clears you out, cleans you, and it's an absolutely wonderful feeling. This, this right now, is probably the most clear my mind has been in ages. I can't even begin to describe the relief.

The _Marianne_.

It had started coming back to me as I passed along the waterfront, Bloodstone greeting me with cheers and whelps of fright and sometime even a question of who I was. Has it really been so long? Maybe so. I stopped counted the years _years _ago.

The stairs, so many stairs, up and down, up and down. I probably could have just walked the edge of the stone, the little ledge by the way, but I was slowly recalling the surety I felt so long ago, tromping off to meet the ghost of Captain Dread. I hadn't laughed at the old sea dog; I knew that ghosts existed, if the debacle with Alex had been anything to go by. (I remember feeling just the little bit sad about that turn of events- I hadn't wanted her to _kill_ herself, but there was no way I was going to _marry_ her, morality be damned. Irregardless of the fact that I already had a wife- had had a husband- she really wasn't my cup of tea. What a pity, too. She was a sweet girl.) If nothing else, it was an adventure, and the prospect of finding Captain Dread's buried treasure was just too good to pass up. I didn't do what I did for shits and giggles- gold was _good_, it _bought_ you shit. And you needed it to get _anywhere_ in the world, especially as a Hero. That was what I'd thought.

Wait wait, stay in the present, there's a good boy. Remembering, remembering was good, very good, but I couldn't afford to get lost in my head again. Not now. So close to being _so close_. And _knowing_ what I had to do was a very good start. Keeping it in mind was an even larger accomplishment.

And so I'd walked, kind of stumbled, along, the ghost of a gargoyle's voice echoing in my mind as the water tower disappeared behind me. I looked down idly at the entry to the path, cleverly hidden by a bend of the rock face, and noted with a sense of amusement (was it amusement? I couldn't tell. But the corners of my mouth upturned and my stomach pooled with a sort of lightness, so I can only assume as much) that the gangly, creeping vines had grown back with a vengeance. They were probably more vicious than before. Even so, they were cut away just as easily, a simple swing of a sword, and _slice_. (Where had the sword come from? I hadn't remembered intentionally picking it up and bringing it with me- that was worrying. But it was probably such a second nature that remembering would have been unnecessary, at any rate.)

Just down the path, down the path- oh! There's a rock there, and an unassuming chest, having long been open. The hinges barely held. At this, I remember laughing, booming and loud, and I don't realize _why_. Because this isn't even the remotest bit funny. And there was the ship, the _Marianne_, and the memories of searching the cavern, killing ghosts as they gathered round for supper, of battling Captain Dread, and of all the bloody _beetles_ on that damned treasure island—and I was so overwhelmed that I just stood there for a moment. I hadn't even been sure that the ship would be _here_, and for a moment I indulged myself in my ego and thought "_my, this ship is loyal, I'm it's _master."

And the feeling as I touched the helm was beautifully calming. The wood, smooth and weatherworn by so many years, was like a worry stone passed down by the gypsies. And as soon as I _thought_, gave any indication that I wanted to go _there_, to where the two fellow male Heroes had gone away, the wood filled with life beneath my fingers, different than any magic I could ever create myself.


End file.
